It matters how some afternoons late into spring / the voices round the café tables lift and fall / like sea birds or low winds, and a smudge of orange light / / plays slowly through the window; and it matters how / the houses along the yellow ocean, drifting out / of darkness as the day assem...

Think of it as the rubber ball we’ve hidden / in the fruit bowl. Think of it as sludgy coffee. / Think of it like it’s a bunch of balloons. / / Imagine it’s the voices on the recordings / we deleted. Think of it as the empty roads / you see from the empty train. / / Think of it as the lull...